Fire in the Wall

by S G Dunster

  The hatches were all over the deck, for easy access to every part of the system. I went down the ladder that would bring me to the legion of stoves, lined up to provide the heat used to make the steam that turned the engines.

  We lost some of the water, but most of it was recaptured from the balloon as it condensed and recirculated. It was, overall, an efficient system. If you didn’t count the coal. I’d been thinking of ways around that, but didn’t quite have anything plausible yet.

  As I climbed down the ladder, though, and found sleek, steel rocket-stoves—twice as many as we’d had before, churning away silently, pipes routed through the giant tank of water, I realized that I was being petty.

  It was my story. But Lil had improved it. She had. And if I thought as outside-the-box as she did, I’d improve it, too. If I took a paragraph or two from her stories, I’d be benefitting my own. Did I need to own everything? Didn’t stories, didn’t people in stories sometimes evolve on their own? Or seem to?

  The coal boys bustled around, shoveling the stoves full, watching them carefully, loosening or tightening the dampers to give the exact right amount of oxygen to the stove contents.

  “Hey!” a high voice called. “Cap’n.” One of the boys scurried over to me, grinning. He was eight, maybe—youngest of them. I’d written a story or two about him. Twigs, I called him, but his real name was George Stafford Kownes, and he was an orphan the Captain of the Whippoorwill had taken aboard when he found him begging at Bleak Station, the most dangerous dock in Astridia.

  “Hey Twigs,” I replied. “How are the engines running today?”

  “Full steam. These new porkers are eating up the coal so much more slowly we’ve only had need of half the men at a time on shift, too. I’ve been getting more sleep.”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  “Twigs! Get your tiny backside over to your station!” Rollo, the daytime shiftmaster, gave me a grimace. “Sorry Cap’n. Orders were full steam.”

  Twigs grinned at me, saluted Rollo, and ran back to his station.

  “Yes,” I said. “Full steam. Thank you.”

  I stayed for a while longer, listening to the sound of the boiling tank, the roar of fire as an oven door was opened for more coal, the churning of the great engine that turned all the shipboard gears, which lead out to the paddles. It was soothing. I could almost hear words in the rhythms. And it was warm down here. Too warm, really, but nice, like being bundled in a mountain of wool blankets on a chilly winter day.

  I finally went up shipside and told Marco of our new plan, giving him the map I’d made. I made it, actually made it: the paper, a quill to spread ink onto paper. I had scrawled out a copy of the map Eap had made, big X and all. “We’re headed there,” I said, tapping it.

  Marco looked at it, nodding. Took the other map, the one Eap had given him, and compared. Adjusted some instruments.

  “Cloaked,” I said. “When we come within sight of land, we cloak.”

  He glanced at me. “When are we having the sendoff for Dane?”

  My throat grew tight. “After the noon meal,” I said.

  He nodded again and went back to his work.

  I went around to all the places again—kitchen, engine room, cabins—and let people know. They all seemed glad. Subdued. Sad. Arapahoe and Selah were in his room together when I knocked, and they looked completely sober.

  “I’m sorry, Logan.” Selah laid a hand on my shoulder. Her small, callused fingers sent a thrill through me that brought a stab of guilt.

  Guilty for what? This is a story, I told myself. My story. I gave her a smile and glanced at Arapahoe, who was watching me with that slight cynicism that marked him. “We will dress in uniform,” I told him.

  Eap and Lil were by the turbines, watching them whir. The great wind from them sent her hair in untidy spirals behind her, tearing them loose from the braids. She stood there, her perfect profile outlined by the blue sky, and for a moment, my breath was gone.

  It made me angry. “Funeral’s after the noon meal,” I told them both. “We’re dressing in uniform, so . . . uh . . . find something,” I said.

  I walked to my rooms, churning inside. Dane was gone. My love interest. Why shouldn’t I make her again? I could bend everything. I really could. I could do it.

  But. Solidity was important. Would the whole telling fall apart if I bent it that much? This story was unfolding without my permission. And other tellers were making it with me, now. That made it even more solid, I knew now. But it also took the control from me. Control over my own story, gone.

  Control. That’s what I loved about my worlds. They were mine. Nobody else’s. I made the decisions, I chose what to see. A refreshing change from my usual life.

  I thought of Selah’s touch on my shoulder and warmth spread throughout my body. Well, if they were re-telling, changing things, why couldn’t I?

  My heart beat faster. I sped up the pace, walking to my cabin.

  I opened the door, and Selah was waiting for me. She sat at the oak desk in the corner.

  “I’ve been waiting,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.” She fingered her little dagger, drawing a dark drop of blood from the side of her thumb.

  “Dane’s death was sudden,” I took a step toward her. “Unexpected. Overwhelming. I understand you’re destabilized.”

  She looked up at me, her eyes flashing. “There’s a lot of new stuff going on around here. Things are changing fast.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed and sat on the end of my bed. “They are. Do you trust me?”

  “I trust you, Captain. I just don’t trust . . . the other two. The girl, and the . . . the ruffian.”

  I frowned at her. The trip in her voice, the way her consonants furred. I saw the bottle on the desk. Amber liquid. Eap’s spirits.

  “Where did you get that?”

  She gave me a half-smile. “I took it from the salon.” She lifted it to her lips and glugged down a few more swallows.

  “Hey!” I wrestled it away from her. “Don’t. Those . . . that’s real wine. Like, stronger than I—stronger than you’ve had before.”

  She looked up at me, breathed on me. Her breath was sour, intoxicating. “It’s definitely nothing I’ve had before,” she murmured.

  I leaned toward her, my pulse thrumming in my neck, and put my mouth to her hair. Thick, glossy. Smelling of sweet sweat and cold wind.

  “Come here,” she said quietly.

  I did, and, hesitantly, slid my arms around her. I held her for a moment that was like captured hours. Just there, perfect. Warm. Selah, my beautiful weapons expert.

  She lifted her face, and I took a deep breath and kissed her.

  It was like tasting a perfectly ripe peach—better even than you imagined it would be. She smelled like honey and coconut and cinnamon, and her lips were soft and full and firm and gentle, and greedy. The world exploded into color around me—scarlets and golds. I grabbed her to me, pressed her against my chest, and kissed deeply.

  She returned the kiss with an almost desperate fierceness. “I didn’t know,” she whispered when we broke apart, her eyes flicking over my face. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me again.

  Gold. Red. Warm, thrilling, feelings chasing feelings . . . hours. We must have spent hours, only it felt to me like a lifetime. I’d never touched a woman’s body before; and I knew, as I touched Selah, that it was just as I’d thought because I was thinking it. That it was everything I imagined it would be because I was the one telling it, from my imagination. But as we lay close, and as I ran my hands over the slim curve of her back, as she treated me with those lips, as I tasted her and took her and carried on all sorts of things I’d definitely thought about but also, definitely, never had done, I was melting into myself. Melting into my own tellings. I was dissolving, becoming part of the pile of sheets around me, part of the gleam of gilt on my walls. Part of Selah.

  I lay there on my back, in my Captain’s bed, and Selah lay on my chest, her black curls spilled
all over me, her firm, warm body tucked tight against mine, and I didn’t want anything else. I didn’t want to leave. This was the first warm moment I’d had in . . .

  Before, even. Before I came to the Caldera. Before . . . a lot of things.

  How can you feel so safe, I wondered, putting a hand on the round curve of her head, feeling the regular, deep breaths of her sleeping there, when you’re surrounded by danger? When the safeness itself is danger?

  I drifted off, and when I woke up, she was gone. I wondered, for a few minutes, if I’d dreamed it all—I’d had these sorts of dreams, like anyone. But there were a few dark curling strands of hair on my pillow.

  Guilt mixed with exultation struck me—the two feelings together rich and sharp and as whole as peanut butter and chocolate. I closed my eyes and breathed in—her smell was still on me.

  She’s mine.

  Satisfaction spread through me.

  I had her.

  Sin. Stories. I didn’t care.

  I stood, feeling as rested and relaxed as I’d ever felt. I showered, assumed my captain’s clothing, and glanced at the clock.

  Dang, I thought. I’d missed the noon meal. The funeral was about to start.

  I strode onto the deck, moving toward the salon.

  Everybody was assembled there. I glanced at Selah, slim and straight in her gold-braid regimentals. She didn’t meet my gaze. She was steadily fixed on the display at the front of the room. Arapahoe stood beside her, his long hair braided, woven through with a fillet of gold to match the buttons on his dark-blue coat. Seeing him, fierce, noble, and strong—my loyal first mate, the best friend and soldier.

  A punch of guilt, right in the solar plexus. Right in the throat.

  I swallowed it, arguing with myself. Ridiculous, I told myself. You’re being ridiculous.

  I went to the front of the room. There were flowers—ivy and lilies, just like Dane. Graceful, pale, but maybe not fun enough. I looked at the arrangement and added a few striped tiger lilies, improbably colored purple and blue.

  The audience didn’t seem to notice or care. Their gazes fixed on my face.

  Except Selah’s. She was staring down at her lap, her shoulders tense.

  I gave a short speech about the line of duty and Dane and how much we all loved her. It stirred feelings; Corinne dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, and several of the kitchen girls and maids were openly weeping. The coal boys and shift managers looked at me with eyes that were worried, cowed. No hope. I wasn’t seeing a whole lot of hope.

  I wasn’t doing enough.

  I elaborated on our duty, on the glory and honor that was death for a cause. People were becoming distracted. And Selah lifted her head and looked at me. Except it wasn’t a look; it was a glare.

  I opened my mouth, shut it. I looked at Eap.

  He nodded at me and rose, walked to the front, put a hand on my shoulder.

  I sat.

  “Dane,” Eap said. A few moments passed, the pause humming with expectation. “A poem.”

  “What a token of love a given life is . . .” He paused.

  “In a cause to set men free,” he continued. “A pillar of faith, a well of heart.”

  He’d gotten his pace, and his face turned fierce, brooding, and serious.

  “A fruit from the eternal tree.

  The great pistons turn in a story that rides

  The tides of untold sky

  And it’s here where she lived,

  Here that she fought

  And for this, she chose to die.”

  There were real tears now. From the men, from the women. From Selah, too. Her face glowed, and she gave a little nod as he ended.

  “We do not glorify death,” Eap said simply, meeting the eyes, one by one, of everyone in the room. “Death is separation. Loneliness. We long for our loves. We never leave them behind. But we move forward, to honor them.”

  Arapahoe clapped. The others joined in. Eap sat, head bowed, while people stood and walked to the table that held the flowers, leaving little tokens. I was surprised to see Selah walk up to Eap and kiss him on the cheek, putting a hand on his shoulder, just as she had with me, before leaving her flower.

  Eap, Lil, and I walked out together.

  “What next?” Lil asked. “That was pretty good,” she added grudgingly, tilting her head in the direction of the salon. “The poem.”

  Eap scoffed. “It was rubbish.”

  “It seemed to make Selah happy enough,” I snarked, surprising myself and both of them. Lil’s pale eyebrows lifted.

  Eap gave me a steady look. “Be careful, Logan. These people of yours—they are not possessions, not to be played with like dolls. They are imprints. Which means they are everything you know them, in your heart, in your subconscious, to be. You can’t change them—they are almost alive. They have wills. They will surprise you.” He put a hand on my shoulder. Like Selah had with me. With him.

  Anger flared through me. I shook it off. “It’s my story.”

  “No,” Lil interjected. “It’s ours now, Logan. Which means that all these people—the crew, the ship—they aren’t just what you know they are. They’re what we know they are, too. Three tellers, telling a story, to make it solid and real, and three brains full of assumptions and noticings and extrapolatings and tellings, making it work.” She shook her head. “You’re not at the wheel anymore, Cap’n.” She gave me a sarcastic salute and strutted away.

  I made a frustrated noise—like a growl in the back of my throat. “That means I get to tell things, too.”

  Arapahoe’s face—that sharp, watchful expression, came to mind. I shoved it away.

  “You do,” Eap said, “the same way that we all tell our own parts of life. You will do what you will. I do what I will. We all see those gleaming metal turbines, and they whir according to all our expectations. We all make, and lie in, our own beds.” He gave me a perceptive look.

  My face warmed.

  It’s my right, I told myself as I stalked back to my cabin.

  The rumpled sheets, the blankets, were like a slap in the face.

  I sat at the end of the bed, and rubbed at my face, scraped my finger through my hair, digging my nails into my scalp. My right, I repeated, my heart growing heavier.

  There was a knock on the door. Bitsy stuck her head in, and grinned. “Need anything, Cap’n?”

  I gave her a look—dark, angry.

  She backed up. “Well, ‘scuse me,” she pipped. Her eye flitted to the rumpled bed, then to the floor. There was a lacy undergarment tangled in the sheet-ends. Silk, red.

  Selah-red.

  Her eyes narrowed. She gave me a cool nod and shut the door.

  I lay down and pulled the covers around me. They still smelled like her. Ripe fruit, tinged with the sourness of strong wine.

  I hit my forehead with a fist, and buried my face in the pillow.

  After an hour or so I gave up. Raging inside, I strode onto the deck. My dress uniform was a little rumpled, and my hair was a giant mess, I was sure.

  There were dozens on deck—coal boys scrambling down into the hatches, coal boys streaming out, covered with fine black dust. It must be the shift change.

  I found them at the helm, standing in the prow, talking. Arapahoe and Selah. Leaning against the rail, watching the mist. The sky had left us again. I couldn’t make myself care; I was too struck by them, standing there. His arm around her shoulders. Her eyes swollen, like she’d been crying.

  Selah is not a crier. I’d never tell her that way.

  But she turned to me, and gave me a look—sadness, mixed with hurt, frustration—and I knew that Selah was, in fact, a crier.

  She looked at me, and Arapahoe turned. “Cap’n.” He saluted me calmly, and un-self-consciously wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

  Selah turned away from me, nestled into his shoulder. “When will we see land again?” Arapahoe asked.

  “I’m not . . . sure,” I said. The contrast of our voices—his deep and reson
ant and calm, mine cracking a little on the last word, hesitant, unsure.

  My stomach was twisted on itself. I felt sick. I didn’t belong with Selah. Not the way I’d told her. And not the way I’d told Arapahoe. They belonged with each other. I could change Selah right now, make her less loyal. I could make her willing to cheat, be unfaithful or changeable in her affections. I could make her not in love with Arapahoe. But then she wouldn’t be her.

  So what had I done?

  I’d taken advantage of her.

  The realization curdled my stomach. I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe myself. What kind of monster was I? What had I done to her? To Selah? I knew her. She’d hate herself. Torture herself. She’d eventually tell Arapahoe, and it was possible he wouldn’t forgive her. He was hard to read, hard to predict, but he didn’t like to be taken advantage of.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, emphasizing the words, hoping Selah would get that I meant it for her. It was stupid, insufficient, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  She gave a little headshake, not even looking at me. She kept her head on his shoulder.

  His gaze cut into me, and he tightened his grip around her shoulders.

  Did he know, then? Had she told him already?

  My face flushed. Anger battled with shame.

  I could make her forgive me. Make her forget, too.

  But the thought made me feel slimy. It was . . . it would be like drugging someone so they forgot.

  “I won’t know much until I speak with Eap.” I stuttered a little.

  “He gave a fine eulogy. A respectable man, after all,” Arapahoe answered.

  I heard the implication. That while his respect for my friend rose, his respect for someone else had lowered significantly. I ducked my head, nodded slightly, and turned to leave. Like a dog.

  The anger was beginning to bubble again. She was drunk. I was confused. It was a mistake.

  No, I told myself. You did. You knew better.

  “Gag,” Lil’s voice interjected. She stalked toward me along the deck, her eyes fixed on Selah and Arapahoe. “If you’ve had enough play-acting, Eap and I need to talk to you. We’re going to turn and move back toward land.”